


No Time to Die

by coatsandjumpers



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, M/M, NOT a bond crossover despite the title, Pre-Canon, Romance, is anyone besides me still even reading this tag, ish, or am i shouting into the void
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatsandjumpers/pseuds/coatsandjumpers
Summary: Arthur and Eames die many, many times in dreams. It’s part of their jobs, but it’s not easy.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





	No Time to Die

Dreamsharing, it turns out, is just like every other corporate job Arthur has ever had. It might involve more weapons and more shades of illegality, but at the end of the day, his introductory training does fuck-all to prepare him for the real thing.   
  
Cobb has taken Arthur under multiple times before, gotten him used to a world with new rules, but Arthur is twenty-two and desperate not to show it. So when his first opportunity to work a real job rolls around and Dom claps him on the shoulder and says, “You’re ready”, Arthur can’t bring himself to disagree. 

It’s a simple extraction, or it should be. Arthur accepts the fact that he is deeply, deeply underprepared when shots start coming down, fast and thick like hail. Just like that, they’re running through the maze of the dream, and Arthur is firing shots behind him, craning his head over his shoulder to aim. When he faces front again, two projections down, the street stretches before him, no one in sight. Arthur’s gaze careens over his surroundings - storefronts, alleyways, dumpsters - but he can’t be sure where the rest of the crew is, and he stops in his tracks, panic rooting him to the asphalt. 

The gunshot catches him off guard, and when Arthur is curled on the ground, clutching his knee, he thinks stupidly that that’s probably what gunshots are supposed to do. It’s pain beyond anything he’s ever felt, and Arthur struggles to breathe when the projections reach him, binding him and tossing him none-too-gently in the back of a van. His knee makes sickening grinding sounds, pieces of bone shifting over each other, and Arthur has to will himself to stay conscious. 

Every bump in the road is agony, and he’s almost relieved when they arrive at some dismal warehouse. The whole operation - gun, van, abandoned building - is predictable in every conceivable way, except that it’s happening to him. He’s carried inside, tied to a chair, and then the projections start asking questions.   
  
They want to know everything— who he is, why he’s here, who he’s working for. Arthur grits his teeth, glares like he’s seen in the movies, and braces himself to be loyal. _It’s just a dream_ , he tells himself. Nothing can touch him, and pain is temporary. He thinks he knows this, believes it, but then a projection levels a gun at his other knee, and repeats: who are you working for?   
  
Arthur opens his mouth, and even he’s not sure what words are crawling up his throat. Arthur opens his mouth and— Dom crashes through the door, guns blazing, and Arthur’s heart leaps. In an instant, the projection holding the gun raises his arm forty-five degrees, so that Arthur is looking straight down the barrel, and he knows, instinctively, what’s about to happen. It’s only a split second - Dom won’t have any allies in the room, this projection will make sure of that - but Arthur feels that moment and feels it again, the fear shooting sharp and painful into his nerves. 

The projection tightens his finger. Arthur thinks _what if I don’t wake up?_

_\---_

Arthur wakes up clammy. His first breath is on instinct alone, but the air tastes like pure relief, so he takes another breath, bigger, and another, bigger, until he realizes he’s hyperventilating. He disconnects from the PASIV and starts evening out his breaths - one, two, three, in, one, two three, out, he’s done this before - as he looks around. The crew and the mark are still under. He’s the only one topside, but Arthur knows it’s a matter of seconds before everyone else wakes up; he’d created a disaster and left everyone else to clean up his mess. Arthur feels like a stupid child waiting for the adults to punish him, and the shame flares white-hot in his cheeks, eyes dropping to the floor even though there’s no one to witness his embarrassment.   
  
Arthur finds that the humiliation gives way easily to anger, and he lets the rage and disbelief at Mal and Dom and _Mal_ for not warning him, preparing him better, overwhelm him. It’s a betrayal, and the gut twist of it blots out all of Arthur’s brain. He only realizes he’s shaking when the PASIV needle he’s still holding drops to the floor.   
  
He’s not stupid, he knows that the fastest way topside is a quick trigger, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to happen later, in more advanced training, when Arthur was ready and could predict and prepare then _pull_. Instead, Arthur thinks about the sweat that ran down his back, cold and hot and disgusting all at once, the burn of the ropes fraying at his skin and nerves, and the black of the barrel of that gun. 

Before Arthur can do anything - he’s still sitting down for Christ’s sake - the rest of the crew are waking up. Dom is saying that they need to get the hell out before the mark wakes up too, but it rings odd and distant. They run. Again. Arthur focuses on the motions, let’s the burn of his lungs distract him, keeps it together until they’re out to safety, crew members scattering their separate ways like roaches in the light. He follows Dom and Mal almost mindlessly. _Stupidly,_ Arthur thinks savagely, _like a puppy dog_. When they stop fleeing, panting from the exertion as they hole up in some decrepit abandoned building, Arthur doesn’t pause for recovery. He whirls on them, too pent up for preamble, and spits out, “Why didn’t you warn me?”. 

Arthur wants it to sound bitter, and it does sound angry, but mostly it sounds hurt and naive, young, even to his own ears.  
  
They stare at him for a long second. Arthur is about to hate them even more for daring to be confused, but then Mal’s gaze softens.   
  
“It’s part of the job, Arthur.” Her tone is gentle. “We thought you knew.”

\---

Arthur swears off dreamsharing. He curls up in his shitty apartment, ignoring texts and calls, and spends hours huddled under his comforter, unable to sleep but unwilling to get up. It takes a day for the adrenaline to wear off, two before the anger dissipates. Arthur gives himself another twelve hours to stew, and then he forces himself to get out of bed and thumb through the dozens of messages from Dom and Mal, because he knows he’s only lying to himself about staying away.  
  
Arthur has nothing. One look around his apartment says as much. The furniture is spare, spindly. Arthur’s mattress sits directly on the floor, the sole pillow lolling off the side. He hates living here, because there’s nothing to do but stare at the bare walls and bare shelves and think about how he has no job, no degree, no family, no potential. Dom and Mal had been a saving grace, the first time in years that Arthur had felt excited by something, intrigued. He’d been skeptical when Dom gave him what seemed like a well-rehearsed spiel about _helping discharged military members_ and _not caring about your past_ , but when he’d looked at Mal and she’d looked straight back at him, all conviction, he knew he would take whatever they were offering.

He calls Mal. 

She picks up on the first ring. “Arthur?” 

She’s hesitant, concerned. Arthur pauses, then says, “I want to do this. But Mal— you have to tell me everything. No white lies.” 

“We didn’t mean to— ”   
  
Arthur snaps, adrenaline and anger bursting to the surface so quickly he isn’t sure they ever really went away.   
  
“Don’t bullshit me, Mal. You two told me that this extraction was zero-risk. You guys convinced me I was ready, and I _know_ you know I wasn’t. Damn it,” Arthur says, volume escalating with every word, “you need to be honest with me. How am I supposed to take point if you’re hiding shit and making decisions behind my back? It’s _my_ fucking job to know best, not yours.”   
  
Arthur is breathing heavily, and he makes a conscious effort to lower his voice. “If I come back - swear to me - you tell me everything there is to know.” 

“Arthur— ” 

“Mal,” Arthur interrupts, firm. “Promise me.” 

Silence, then, “You have my word.” 

Arthur exhales. “Okay, then. Tell me where to find you.” 

\---

Arthur goes back to dreamsharing, and he learns. His first time back, he has Mal take him under, and with her watchful gaze, he focuses on the weight and build of a Glock until he feels metal, smooth on the skin of his palm. He takes a breath and darts a quick glance to his side. Mal nods, and Arthur raises the gun and pulls the trigger.

It’s still horrible. Dying is a terrible feeling, and Arthur doesn’t get comfortable so much as he gets used to it.  
  
In the beginning, he was terrified by the way his deaths burned on in his memory, long after he’d snapped the PASIV shut. He’d close his eyes and flick through moments like a slideshow - bullets, water, knives - one after another. After a while, though, Arthur realizes that he can’t recall what happened which time, that the details have gone hazy, just like— just like a fresh but fading dream. He’d always thought forgetting would be better, but he’s starting to learn that dying doesn’t really improve, it only becomes awful in different ways. When he goes to sleep, he feels the muzzle of a dozen different guns, the edge of a dozen different knives, all rolled into a fear so bone-deep and oppressive that Arthur thinks he might suffocate.

\---

Daybreak, Paris. Arthur blinks. The wicker chairs are just beginning to glow golden in the light, the small tables, plein aire, empty, but distinctly French. Arthur had just been imagining the cool heft of a Glock in his hand, the blunt end to a standard training exercise, but the thought has already taken on the velvet texture of a dream. And, when Arthur looks down, he sees only the delicate china of a tiny espresso cup, dainty in his hand.

He takes a sip - good, strong - and sets it down. He turns to Eames, eyebrow quirked in question. 

Eames returns the glance evenly, holding his own frothy cappuccino. 

“There’s no rush, is there, darling?”

“I suppose not,” Arthur responds. 

They sip their coffee, cups clinking softly on saucers, until time runs out.   
  
When they wake to rickety chairs in a nondescript warehouse, it’s as natural and easy as blinking awake in the morning. Arthur feels strangely loose-limbed, like he actually has stolen a nap in the middle of the workday, and he darts a glance at Eames, who’s making busy with the PASIV. When their eyes catch, it’s Eames who smiles first. Arthur remembers that smile vividly, small and quiet, the promise of something as of yet unknown to him.   
  
It’s the first time Arthur goes under with Eames, but it won’t be the last.

\---

For a long time, Arthur had thought he was scared of the pain, that blinding, all-consuming, gasping-like-a-fish sensation. It takes him ages to realize that he dislikes pain, dreads it and avoids it, but what he _fears_ is something else altogether.   
  
What keeps him up at night, tense and rigid on soft sheets, is the thought that somewhere between the gunshot and the other side, he’ll get lost. One day, he’ll die in the dream but his body will remain limp and useless topside, already going cold. Or, worse, he’ll wake up and be somebody different. Someone who doesn’t realize he’s even lost anything, who will go on pretending to be Arthur, more and more of himself disappearing with every death, until he’s nothing but an outline, no substance.

Arthur wonders if there’s anyone who would even notice if he began to disappear, bit by bit. He’s not optimistic. 

\---

Arthur can count the number of people he’s worked with more than once on one hand, and he’s pretty sure counting Dom and Mal as two separate fingers is cheating. What that means is that dreamsharing is a tough industry and that Arthur is a tougher critic. What that _really_ means is that working with Eames is a rare treat, even though Arthur would never, ever admit it.   
  
It’s been a while - almost a year - since Arthur last worked with Eames, but he’s only taken a few jobs in the meantime. Mal had warned him against overworking himself before he had a few more years under his belt. _The more jobs you do, the higher the chance one of them goes bad_ . Arthur can hear her characteristic lilt. _You want to be careful, Arthur. Selective._ So Arthur’s been selective, but when Eames had reached out with a standard corporate extraction, he’d figured it’d be nice to work with a colleague instead of a stranger. Not that he would ever admit that he thinks of Eames as a colleague. Those kinds of compliments go straight to Eames’ head.   
  
The distance of a year spent apart shrinks between them until Arthur finds himself in the middle of the old routine with Eames, comfortable with a side of bickering. It’s a pattern they trace easily enough, the groove worn deep and smooth into the wood of their habits. Sometimes, Arthur finds himself wondering about the afternoon he spent with Eames during their first training session, years ago. These days, it’s all a little less French espresso, a little more Chinese takeout, but that day is sticky in his memory, and that version of Eames holds like honey on the walls of his brain. The Eames that Arthur sees now still has all the abrasive charm and absurdity that are par for the course given his accent, but Arthur thinks he’s missing something, some kind of quiet ease. Or maybe it’s just the cappuccino, topped with foam. As far as Arthur knows, Eames only ever orders drip coffee, black.

\---  
  
The job is straightforward, even though straightforward is a relative and therefore meaningless term when it comes to dreamsharing. Lana, their extractor, runs a tight ship, so it’s a small team, and the plan is one Arthur’s executed some variation of many times before: bribe your way into the mark’s schedule, sedate him in a secluded conference room, get him to a safe location, slip in-and-out of his brain in twenty minutes flat with the list of Ellis & Casner’s merger candidates tucked safely into your pocket. It’s a neat little operation, except that Arthur thinks some of the teammates he’s been introduced to should have remained strangers.   
  
As he’s leaving the warehouse with Eames at the end of their first day, Arthur says, “So Jacobs is a fucking idiot. Nice of you to give me a heads up.”   
  
Eames laughs, “There weren’t a ton of architects to pick from. Why do you think I asked you to be point? Someone has to balance out Jacobs’ stupidity.”   
  
“I’m flattered,” Arthur says drily. He flicks the light switch as they leave.   
  
\---   
  
Arthur doesn’t think much of it. The downside of thinking that a lot of people are incompetent is that he has to work with a lot of incompetent people. But he’s nothing if not observant, and when Jacobs sneaks out for his fourth cigarette at ten forty-five in the fucking morning, Arthur notices.   
  
He corners Eames later in the evening, when everyone else has left.   
  
“Can I help you with something, Arthur?” There’s a touch of irony in his voice, like he’s offended at being disturbed. Arthur thinks that’s rich given that it looks like Eames is making doodles in his notebook.   
  
“Don’t you think it’s weird that Jacobs keeps leaving to smoke?”

Eames sets his pen down in the spine of his notebook, closing the pages around it like a bookmark. When he swivels to face Arthur, he’s smiling.   
  
“Not like you to be a hypocrite, darling.”   
  
“I’m quitting.”   
  
“Of course,” Eames says, dry as biscuits. “I didn’t realize you could quit smoking while smoking. What a revelation! Addicts everywhere will be thrilled.” 

“Shut up,” Arthur says tonelessly, then continues, undeterred. “At the rate Jacobs is smoking, he has to be going through two packs a day.”  
  
“Alright, Sherlock,” Eames responds, eyebrows raised. “Come off it, you think he’s sneaking nefarious phone calls all the dozen times he supposedly goes for a smoke?”   
  
“Don’t be absurd, no one could stand to talk to him that often,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “I think he’s taking a few phone calls which may or may not be nefarious and also happens to have a budding nicotine addiction.”

“Well, as lovely as this window into your paranoia is, I’m not sure why this is relevant,” Eames comments. He’s still facing Arthur, but he’s already turning away, hands going back to his notebook.  
  
Arthur puts his own hand on the notebook, leans towards the desk. “Eames, come on. I know this is a standard job, but these kinds of corporations can get nasty. If there’s something going on, I want to know, and if Jacobs comes up fishy, I’m pulling the plug.”   
  
Eames heaves a sigh, long-suffering and put-upon. “Please, can you not be so _you_ about this?”   
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asks, louder than he means to.   
  
“You know what I mean. I don’t think we need to be looking for problems. We have enough work as it is.”   
  
“I just think we should do our due diligence,” Arthur insists.   
  
“And I think we should stop pulling our hair out over something that’s nothing.” Eames crosses his arms. “The man smokes and takes phone calls, so what?”   
  
“Why are you pushing back on this so much?” Arthur asks, stung. “I just want to look into it a little—”   
  
“While I admire your love of research,” Eames interrupts, every syllable suggesting the opposite, “I don’t know why you insist on making this job more complicated than it needs to be.”   
  
“I’m not trying- I’m not being difficult,” Arthur sputters, “It’s both our asses on the line, Eames, not just mine.” 

Eames goes quiet at that, the silence stretched taut between them. Eventually, Eames sighs and uncrosses his arms. 

“Fine. Please don’t shut this job down,” Eames says, tone flat. “I could use the money.”  
  
“What? Why?” Arthur’s so taken aback, he forgets not to be rude.   
  
“Oh, you know, I just have some rather impatient people who are relying on me to put bread on their tables,” Eames says, breezy.   
  
Arthur leans close and lowers his voice, even though they’re alone. “What are you tangled up in?”   
  
“That seems like my business, Arthur.” Less breezy.   
  
Arthur feels a prick of hurt for what seems like the hundredth time this conversation, but he’s calm when he says, “It’s my business if you want to keep working together.”   
  
Eames looks supremely unconcerned, one corner of his mouth curling. “Yes, and as charming as your little five finger system is, I happen to know Jamie’s dead, Sunah retired last month, and the Cobbs hardly count, do they? Doesn’t seem like you can afford to be picky, darling.”   
  
It’s a low blow. Arthur doesn’t ask how Eames knows about the five finger system.   
  
“I could quit,” he threatens, eyes narrow.   
  
Eames looks right at him, and says, “Yes. You could.”   
  
A beat, then Arthur deflates and turns to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Eames.”   
  
\---

Arthur looks into Jacobs anyway, because, as he tells himself, it doesn’t really matter whether Eames is on board or not. The effort is half-hearted at best though. He hasn’t found much on Jacobs, and if he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure there’s much to find. He thinks that maybe Eames is right, and he’s become a paranoid bastard at the ripe old age of twenty-six. If he’s being more honest, Arthur knows that he won’t walk away from this job, not after Eames called his bluff, so the best he can do is to be prepared, boy-scouts style. And if he’s being fully honest, wine-drunk honest, so honest it hurts, Arthur knows that the reason he won’t walk away, Jacobs be damned, is that if Eames has decided to see this job through, then he’s going to see it through, stubborn like gum in hair. And Arthur doesn’t like the idea of leaving Eames high and dry, no matter how much he might deserve it.  
  
That confession will never cross his lips, but he supposes it’s safe enough locked away in his own head.   
  
\---   
  
The extraction goes south so quickly, it gives Arthur whiplash. He closes his eyes with the hiss of the PASIV still in his ears, but when he wakes a moment later, there’s debris everywhere, glass flying through the air, stinging his cheeks. There’s high winds coming in through the blown windows, incongruous in a classy office high-rise, and Arthur instinctively roots his feet to battle against the sway.   
  
He brings his arms up to shield his face, letting the cloth of his suit take the brunt of the glass, and turns to Eames, who’s appeared next to him.   
  
“What,” he yells, losing his voice in the wind, “the fuck?” 

Eames’ face is tight as he shouts back, “The dream’s collapsing. This is Casner’s mind, someone must have shot him out.” 

Lana appears, swearing. Eames’ expression is calculating, and he’s already pulling out a Walther - typical, Arthur can’t help thinking - when he yells, “It’s Jacobs. He shot the mark and shot himself out. We need to get the fuck out of here.”   
  
Lana wastes no time, and she crashes to the ground, but even as Arthur is raising his hand to his own temple, a huge steel beam comes crashing into the floor with the weight of an earthquake. Arthur notices, a little absentmindedly, that everything is swaying, and it’d be soothing if it weren’t so egregious. A second later, the pain hits, and he’s struggling for air, glass be damned, trying to work his way out from under the beam lodged over his torso and legs. It’s so heavy he thinks he can feel his organs compressing, but the pain from the broken bones - ribs, legs, maybe an arm - is so sharp, that he can’t think about much else. His arms are pinned, and even if they weren’t he’s not sure where his Glock is, dropped somewhere when the beam hit him like a semi.   
  
It’s chaos, but then Eames’ face is hovering over his own. He must read panic in every line of Arthur’s expression, because he starts talking immediately, as soothing as possible given that he’s shouting to be heard over the storm.   
  
“Arthur, hold still, I’ll shoot you out,” he yells, gun pointing towards Arthur’s forehead. Arthur registers the stress in Eames’ voice, and it’s only then that he realizes, distantly, that he’s bucking wildly, like a trapped rabbit, head straining and turning as he thrashes to get out from under the beam.   
  
He’s scared, so scared that he feels the hot sting of tears behind his eyes, and even as he knows that this is a dream and they need to go, the old fear is rushing back in like a tidal wave, and he can’t stop moving, can’t help thinking _what if it goes wrong_ and _what if Eames fucks it up somehow_ and _not like this, God_ .   
  
“Arthur,” Eames is screaming, “I need a clean shot or this is going to hurt like hell! We need to go, who knows what the fuck Jacobs is doing topside, do you hear me?”   
  
And Arthur does hear him, and he wants to shout and tell Eames to hold on, just give him a second to fucking breathe, but his jaw is clenched tight like he has early onset rigor mortis, and his breaths are coming out as whimpers between shut teeth.   
  
Arthur feels the first bullet in the side of his head, the second dead center in his forehead.   
  
\---

Unsurprisingly, things do not improve when Arthur wakes. The room is a mess of activity, and Arthur, still shaking, promptly throws up on a stranger halfway through tying him to a chair. Arthur doesn’t blame him for shouting in disgust and rolling away, but the adrenaline is starting to surge, clearing Arthur’s head, and he isn’t inclined to be charitable. Arthur kicks out with his loosely bound feet, working to increase slack in the rope with the bonus of catching the vomit-covered henchman in the gut a couple times. A second more, then— he’s free, and Arthur springs out of the chair, pulling the other man up by his collar. The man is moaning in pain, clearly disoriented. Arthur looks at him, then - still holding him up with one hand - snaps his right arm back and punches him in the face, dead-on. He feels him go completely limp a second later, knocked out, and Arthur drops his dead weight to the ground, satisfied.   
  
He turns to help Eames and Lana, but Lana’s extra few seconds topside have clearly worked to her advantage, because Arthur spots one man at her feet, bleeding, and a second - Casner - with his hands raised, looking carefully down the barrel of her gun.   
  
Eames is pale, but a quick glance tells Arthur he has the situation under control, gun trained on an unarmed Jacobs, who doesn’t look much better than Eames.   
  
“Lana,” Eames says, voice low but steady, “Casner. We don’t need him.”   
  
Lana meets his eyes for a half-second, then moves instantly, the butt of her gun crashing down on the man’s head, an almost comedic thump following a moment later as he crumples.   
  
“Good.” Eames’ eyes haven’t moved from Jacobs. As if in unspoken agreement, Arthur and Lana turn to face Jacobs as well, guns in hand, sparing cursory glances every now and then at the unconscious men on the floor.   
  
“Jacobs,” says Eames, serious as Arthur’s ever heard him, “start fucking explaining.”   
  
“Fuck off,” Jacobs spits.   
  
“Alright, then. Arthur?”   
  
Arthur hears the urgency in Eames’ tone, level as it sounds. The men behind them are unconscious, but might not be for long. Jacobs might be stalling, back-up on the way. Too many unknowns to be safe. Arthur makes a decision, and shoots Jacobs in the leg. Right calf, no bone— non-lethal but plenty painful.   
  
Jacobs is screaming, but Eames shouts over him. “We’re not bluffing! Who’d you sell us out to?”   
  
“Who do you think? Casner,” Jacobs yells, clutching at his leg.   
  
“Who else knows? Just our friendly CEO?” Eames asks, with a nod towards the unconscious bodies behind him.

“Yes, okay?” Jacobs is panting, “He was just going to rough you up a bit, teach you a lesson.”   
  
“And you took his word on that? For what, a couple thousand bucks?” Arthur sees the fury building in Eames’ face, his finger tight on the trigger.   
  
“Eames,” Arthur cuts in, “we have to get out of here.”   
  
Lana nods. “We don’t know who else might be coming. It’s time to go.”   
  
Eames is breathing heavily, chest moving. “And we’re going to let this piece of shit go?”   
  
Arthur’s already packing up the PASIV and getting ready to leave. “The mark will take care of him. Let’s go.”   
  
With what seems like a monumental effort, Eames lowers his arm and falls in step with Arthur and Lana. As soon as they exit the warehouse, Lana splits up with them, sparing a moment to say, “I don’t think Casner is stupid enough to keep coming after us, but we should all lie low anyway. I’m getting out of the country. Sorry this was such a shit show, guys.”   
  
And with that, she turns on her heel and disappears around the corner.   
  
Arthur knows that he and Eames should probably go their separate ways as well, but when he starts moving and Eames follows, he doesn’t tell him to do otherwise. They jog a few blocks, straighten out their clothes, then hail a cab. Arthur pays cash, has the driver drop them off at a nondescript corner that Arthur knows is a short walk away from a seedy motel.   
  
They check in without saying much. When Arthur finally gets to his room, Eames a few doors down, he heaves a sigh and beelines for the shower. The bathroom is dim and grimy, but the water is hot.   
  
Arthur lets his head bow under the spray, wanting to wash the skin of the day right down the drain. Fucking Jacobs.

\---  
  
The knock on his door an hour later is a surprise. Arthur’s wearing his white undershirt and the same black briefs from the day— benefits of having to abandon your luggage. He shucks on his pants and grabs his gun, moving as quietly as possible.   
  
It’s probably Eames, but Arthur thinks he’s excused for being cautious after today.   
  
“It’s me,” Eames says, still knocking obnoxiously. Arthur sighs and opens the door, stepping back to let Eames in. With the door shut, Arthur suddenly remembers his outfit, suit pants mixing oddly with his dirty t-shirt, and he crosses his arms, feeling strangely exposed.   
  
“Do you need something?” Arthur asks. He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he’s caught off-guard, and it comes out more aggressively than he’d intended.   
  
Eames doesn’t say anything for a second. He’s looking intently at Arthur, studying him like he’s searching for injuries, like Arthur’s some kind of— oh God, like Arthur’s some kind of _medical patient_ .   
  
He flushes, heat creeping up his neck as he remembers how he’d acted earlier today, and he feels horribly, stupidly young, even as Eames says, “I just wanted to— debrief. Today was a lot.”   
  
Arthur can’t stand the softness of Eames’ tone, too gentle, so he makes sure there’s no softness in his when he bites back, “I’m fine.” He can’t quite meet Eames’ eyes.   
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
“Yes,” Arthur grits out. “I know I freaked out a bit, okay? I’m sorry.”   
  
“You’re sorry?” Eames sounds bewildered. “Arthur, you’re not the one who has to apologize.”   
  
“Yes, I am. My behavior put us at risk, and I’m sorry for that,” Arthur says, keeping his tone completely flat.   
  
“Jesus,” Eames responds, “You’d just had a metric tonne of steel slam into you. Your reaction was perfectly reasonable.”   
  
“No, it wasn’t,” Arthur says, voice staccato sharp. He’s not sure why he’s getting heated, but he lets himself feel it, lean into it. “Dying is just— it’s just a part of the job.” Arthur swallows, suddenly self-conscious in the silence of the room.   
  
“I know,” says Eames, looking at him closely. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”   
  
At that, Arthur finally meets Eames’ gaze. He simply looks at Eames for a moment, trying to read his expression, and when he sees nothing but sincerity, he lets out a long breath.   
  
“No,” Arthur admits, “it really doesn’t.”   
  
There’s a companionable silence, until Arthur suddenly remembers why they’re in this mess in the first place. Contrary to popular belief, Arthur doesn’t love saying “I told you so”. He finds it’s generally wiser not to rub people’s mistakes in their faces, when they’ve already managed to do so on their own, and he’s not the kind of man who gets much satisfaction from gloating. But even Arthur has to admit that he feels the tiniest bit of petty satisfaction, standing in his day-old underwear and dirty clothes, when he asks, “What are you going to do now that the job’s fallen through?”   
  
The satisfaction fades as quickly as it came when Eames hesitates for a half second before responding, all confidence, “You know me, I’ll be on the run for a bit, but they’ll get tired of looking for me.”   
  
Arthur knows he should take Eames’ word for it. Anyone else would see Eames for what he is: a seasoned criminal who’s been in this business longer than Arthur has— someone who can take care of himself. But Arthur can’t help but hear the bluster behind all of it, and already cursing himself for making his own life more difficult, he asks, “Who’s after you?” 

Eames’ expression doesn’t slip. “Just some blokes from back home. I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Just like this job was fine?” Arthur lets his voice harden, but Eames’ face shutters at that, eyebrows drawing in close.   
  
Arthur sighs suddenly, too tired to play this game.   
  
“Okay,” Arthur says, no fight, “okay. Just give me the routing number.”   
  
“What?” Whatever Eames was expecting, it wasn’t that.   
  
“The routing number? For the money?” Arthur lets his unspoken _obviously_ hang in the air. “Come on, this isn’t a cash hand-off, right? Even criminals have to live in the 21st century and all that.”   
  
“Arthur, I—”   
  
“Eames,” Arthur cuts him off. “The number.”   
  
Eames gives it to him, eyes wide.   
  
Arthur’s back is already to him, fingers flying across his laptop as he pulls up one of his accounts.   
  
“How much?”   
  
“Twenty-thousand pounds.”   
  
_Jesus_ , Arthur thinks, but he dutifully enters the numbers into the screen, grateful his face is hidden.   
  
“Arthur,” Eames seems to have found his voice again— a shame, because Arthur’s already made up his mind. “I can’t let you do this. You—”

“It’s fine,” Arthur interrupts, already clicking confirm. “I have enough, okay? It’s not a problem.” 

He finishes and forwards the confirmation email to Eames like it’s a day at the office and he’s some corporate nobody. When Arthur finally turns around, he makes sure to look Eames right in the eye. 

“Listen to me. You pull this kind of shit again, and we’re done. You understand?”  
  
Eames nods once. “I understand.”   
  
“Good,” Arthur says, turning back and dropping his elbows onto the desk, suddenly so depleted he wants to melt into the floor, “then get out. I’m going to get some sleep.”   
  
He hears Eames step towards the door, listens for the click of the handle. Instead, he hears nothing, then—   
  
“Good night.”   
  
Arthur looks up sharply to find Eames hovering in the doorway.   
  
“Good night, Mr. Eames. Get home safe.”   
  
The door clicks shut behind him. Arthur stares at it for a long while after, wondering. He doesn’t think of himself as a second-chances sort of person, or he hasn’t anyway, not for a long time. Maybe he’s going soft.   
  
Arthur can’t bring himself to regret it when he finally curls up under the covers, slipping quickly and easily into a dreamless sleep. 

\---  
  
Arthur flies to Paris, where Dom and Mal are living in an apartment so charmingly French it’s disgusting. They’re gracious hosts, the guest bedroom already set up when Arthur arrives. For the most part, they leave Arthur to his own devices, and he doesn’t mind the newfound freedom. Routine settles into him more easily than he’d expected, and Arthur discovers that he likes Paris well enough. He spends his mornings ambling aimlessly through the streets, enjoying the click of shoes on cobblestone, and he takes the paper in a small café a few minutes away from the apartment, practicing his French. He orders the same thing every day: a small espresso. He gives it a stir or two with his spoon, then sips quietly, the sugar packet always left untouched on the side of the plate.   
  
It’s all strangely domestic, Arthur returning in the evenings with the paper still in hand, maybe a bottle of wine or some pastries as a treat to share. Dom and Mal never make him feel anything less than welcome, but as one week becomes two and two inches towards three, Arthur doesn’t want to overextend his stay. He’s also beginning to feel the familiar itch of restlessness, that gentle pressure that reminds him that this, like so much of his life, is temporary, just another hotel room with the bonus of home-cooked meals and good company. It’s this that makes Arthur ask Mal, “When do you think I can start working again?” as he’s chopping onions on his seventeenth day in Paris.   
  
“Perhaps a month,” Mal says, hands still mincing garlic, “just to be safe.”   
  
“A month? That’s a bit paranoid, no?”   
  
“When a job ends like yours did, you’re allowed to be paranoid,” Mal responds. “Cherie, the onions please,” she says, gesturing to Arthur’s cutting board. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped, but he dutifully starts up again.   
  
Dom steps into the kitchen then, claiming counter space to open the red Arthur had brought back today. He handles the corkscrew with practiced ease, pours three glasses even though Arthur and Mal have their hands busy.   
  
For a few minutes, it’s quiet except for the moving knives and the gentle simmer of the water boiling on the stove.   
  
It’s Dom who breaks the silence, too casual when he says, “So, Arthur, I heard what you did for Eames.”   
  
Mal rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, amused. “He means that he overheard Eames on the phone with me, and then he sulked about being excluded until I gave him the full story.”   
  
Arthur matches their lightheartedness when he responds, “It wasn’t a big deal. It’s always good to prevent a mess if you can.” He turns away from them to slide his onions off the cutting board and into a pan.   
  
“I think it’s lovely,” Mal says. “He’s young. A little help from someone like you is good for him.”   
  
This time it’s Arthur’s turn to roll his eyes. The way Mal talks, anyone would think she’s a sixty year old matron, but Arthur is pretty sure she’s about the same age as Eames, and he says as much.   
  
“That’s irrelevant,” Mal replies with a huff, like Arthur is being obtuse. “He’s still—” she pauses, like she’s searching for the right word. “He’s still learning.”   
  
“It takes some people longer than others,” Dom adds, authoritative with his wine glass in hand.   
  
Arthur doesn’t say anything, choosing to start washing the tomatoes instead.

\---

A few days later, Arthur leaves for L.A., which is the closest thing he has to home. Dom and Mal insist on dropping him off at the airport, and Arthur relents, even though he knows the traffic around de Gaulle never fails to be a disaster. At the curb, he gives Mal a kiss on each cheek and gives Dom a hug, short but strong. It makes Arthur feel oddly vulnerable, younger, like he’s a teenager off to college.   
  
Arthur sleeps on the flight, so when he gets to his apartment at the crack of dawn, he’s exhausted, but he’s not tired. He fumbles with the keys, drawn out of some deep abyss in his luggage, and steps over the threshold for the first time in over a month.  
  
It’s dark. The rising sun’s glow isn’t enough to illuminate the apartment, and it still looks like night. Arthur sets down his bags, then flicks on the lights and looks around. It’s not the Spartan prison-cell-style flat of his early twenties, but it’s not particularly cozy either. Arthur thinks that it looks like no one lives here. A moment later, Arthur realizes that that’s not far from the truth.   
  
Inactivity doesn’t suit Arthur, and he’s staring down the next few weeks with apprehension. He’s not sure he’s ever spent a whole consecutive month in this apartment, and looking at the bare walls, he’s remembering why that is. For a split second, Arthur considers turning around and taking himself and his suitcase straight back to LAX. He could go anywhere, travel, see the world.   
  
But Arthur’s not twenty anymore, and besides, he’s already seen a lot of the world. What he wants, he realizes, in a small epiphany, is a place to stay. A place where he can chop onions and drink wine to his heart’s content without ever having to think about how this is temporary, how everything in his life is fleeting.  
  
Arthur sighs and pulls out his laptop, wondering idly if Matisse prints are considered tacky these days. He’s not sure, so he orders one anyway. After a moment’s consideration, he adds a frame to the cart too. 

\---  
  
The package is unceremoniously dumped on his doorstep a week later. Arthur is halfway through hanging it up in his living room, thinking with satisfaction about how it’ll look with the new pillows on his couch, when his phone buzzes.   
  
It’s a notification from his bank. A deposit: 29,286 dollars. _Twenty thousand pounds,_ Arthur thinks. There’s no name attached to the transaction, only a long string of numbers that Arthur doesn’t recognize. There is a memo though, right under the amount. _Thank you_ , Arthur reads. He reads it again, then stares blankly forward, unsure of how, exactly, one is supposed to respond to something like that.   
  
The Matisse looks back at him, unfazed.  
  
\---  
  
Arthur doesn’t encounter Eames again for a few jobs. By that time, the Matisse has a companion piece on the wall, and Arthur has a new comforter. He’s still not home for weeks at a time, which is fine by him— he simply likes the idea that he has something to come back to, if and when he wants to.   
  
Working with Eames again is easy, like settling back into something he hadn’t realized he’d missed. There’s no mention of their last job together, but Arthur feels that they share a strange understanding, like they’re staring at each other across a level field, eye-to-eye for all the distance between them.   
  
When they finally get the chance to chat, Arthur asks, “So where have you been?”, genuinely curious.   
  
“Around,” Eames shrugs, “You know, Morris and Elk, Sanofi, Hoxovo, a few government agencies, that sort of thing.”   
  
Arthur raises his eyebrows. They’re familiar names, all legitimate clients— or as legitimate as things get in an industry that’s technically still illegal.   
  
“That’s an impressive list,” Arthur says.   
  
“Do you approve, Arthur dear?” Eames asks, all exaggerated wide eyes and false hesitation.   
  
Arthur can’t help but laugh at that. “You know I do,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Now get back to work.”

\---  
  
The funny thing about having a colleague who’s shot you point blank in the head, _twice_ , for completely necessary and non-murderous reasons, is that it’s hard to continue calling them a colleague. Arthur supposes that means Eames is a friend. It’s a realization he reaches with some reluctance, because dreamsharing doesn’t smile too kindly upon such things. Arthur has enough trouble trying to keep tabs on Mal and Dom, and Eames seems less inclined to be stable and domestic in Mal and Dom’s old-people way.   
  
This doesn’t stop Arthur from giving into temptation and taking job after job with Eames. He learns that there are real benefits to working with a friend instead of a colleague. Arthur finds that it’s comforting, like having another set of hands. They’re such a well-oiled machine that he even lets himself get lazy on his six, trusting that Eames has it.   
  
Arthur learns that there are also real drawbacks to working with a friend. He watches Eames get shot at by projections, sees him die so many times that he loses count, and each time, it’s like a sucker punch to the gut, even as Arthur reminds himself that it’s all a dream. Arthur knows what it is to look right at Eames then shoot him in the head, unsure of where to put the pointless guilt roiling through his stomach. Sometimes Arthur thinks he’s had enough, and he tells himself he’ll go back to mostly working with strangers, like he did when he was younger.   
  
But then Arthur will wake up with his fingers a hair away from Eames’, the euphoria of another successful job coursing through their veins. Even as they disconnect from the PASIV, Arthur knows it won’t be long before they’re back for more.   
  
\--- 

November comes cold this year, the days smoky with clouds. It’s chilly, even inside where the team is working, but Arthur, already in the dream, notices none of this. He’s going through a training run so familiar, he could be bored, but things look good, and the team crosses the first layer of the dream with some satisfaction, inspecting the architecture and retracing their plan. It’s almost peaceful, here between all the buildings, empty save for a few quiet projections scattered on the street.   
  
When the timer ticks down and Arthur wakes, it’s too bright, like the lights have just come on after a long movie. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust, but when they do, he realizes his head is turned to the right, and that he’s looking right at Eames. The training run went as smoothly as possible, and without any angry projections, it’s as safe as sleeping, but Arthur recognizes that familiar pang, the old beat of fear that seizes him every time he goes under then comes back up. He used to focus on his own breathing as soon as he got topside, using the rise and fall of his chest as a steady reminder that he was awake and alive, and he’s not sure when he started turning to Eames instead, like a ship to a homing beacon. He’s not sure when he started turning to Eames at all, but as he watches him breathe and sees the twitch of his fingers, he feels something slide into place in his brain, and his world narrows down to the simplicity of revelation, even as his axis tilts and shifts.   
  
Arthur pulls out the IV, moving with the slow distraction of a man experiencing epiphany. He’s interrupted only when Eames asks, “Arthur, you okay?”, some concern in his voice.   
  
Arthur smiles. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m good.”   
  
\---   
  
That evening, Arthur is standing outside Eames’ hotel room, one hand raised to knock. Something about the situation tickles at his memory. When the door opens, surprise flashes across Eames’ face, before he smiles and lets Arthur in.   
  
“What can I do for you, darling?” Eames asks, hands in pockets.   
  
Arthur looks at him. He’s died with Eames more times than he can remember: Eames by his side, Eames cradling his head, Eames killing him, Eames dead next to him. It’s not easy, but they do it, and then they wake up, straighten out their clothes, and go on with their day. That’s the price they pay for what they do, and Arthur loves what he does. But now, after all these years, Arthur thinks that maybe it’s time to renegotiate the terms of his contract, because just once - or maybe more than once - he’d like to wake up next to Eames on a morning, in a bed, no dream, no fear.   
  
Eames is still waiting for an answer, looking curious.   
  
“I think I’m about to make our lives a lot harder,” Arthur says and kisses him.   
  
It’s easy and sweet. Arthur’s known Eames for the better part of a decade, so there’s no need for the frantic groping of a dumb hook-up, the desperate speed of a one-night stand. Instead, it’s the simple slide towards something new, together.   
  
When they break apart, they lean on each other, foreheads touching.   
  
“Sorry,” Arthur says, a little breathless, even though he isn’t, not really, work complications be damned.   
  
“Don’t be,” Eames says. Arthur can feel his smile.   
  
\---   
  
The stripes of morning light are gentle on Arthur’s face and shoulders. He blinks his eyes open slowly, enjoying the warmth of the sun from above and Eames from his side. It’s utterly quiet, their room too high up for birds or the sounds of traffic below. Arthur lies still, head pressed to Eames’ back, and listens to the steady _thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump_ of his heart.   
  
As though Eames can sense that Arthur is listening, he stirs, turning over with a big rustle of sheets so that he’s facing Arthur. Arthur looks at him, traces the sleep lines on his cheek, and says, “Come with me to Los Angeles”, voice quiet and creaky from the morning.   
  
“Okay,” Eames responds, “but sleep first.” His eyes are already closing.   
  
Arthur doesn’t say anything as he lets sleep slip over him again, smiling slightly as he pictures how horribly Eames’ shirts will clash with his comforter.   
  
It’s a price Arthur’s happy to pay.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was like pulling teeth! But here it is! 
> 
> Shout out to witling's "Toxic" for the split "What the fuck", to Worm and The Prestige for the idea of losing more of yourself every time you die, and to Virginia Woolf for dry biscuits!


End file.
